Snatched
by Shotgun9
Summary: Sam and Dean battle Pod People in rural Nevada.
1. Chapter 1

Snatched, **Part 1/2**

**Rating:** PG-13 for language and a bit of whumpage

**Notes:** Takes place between Tall Tales and Roadkill.

**Summary:**_"Pod People, Sam. Betcha twenty bucks. The end of the world starts right here in Bumfuck, Nevada."_

**A/N:** This is my first foray into SPN fanfic. It started out as sort of a crack-ilicious result of being forced to watch Invasion of the Body Snatchers (the 1956 version) in one of my classes and turned into something else. But there's still a little bit of crack in there. Enjoy!

* * *

"_Love, desire, ambition, faith… without them, life is so much simpler_." 

"You can say that again, Sparky."

Closing the door to the motel room, Sam was greeted by the sight of his brother sprawled out on the lumpy mattress, paper plate of pizza resting on his chest, domestic beer in his left hand and TV remote in the right.

Sam set the brown paper bag he was carrying on the bed and crossed over to the bathroom. "What are you watching?"

"Who'd have known, Sammy? Even Bumfuck, Nevada has cable." Dean took another swig of his beer and burrowed deeper into the pillows as the shrill strings coming from the television set grew louder.

"Apparently it had honorable knights too," grumbled Sam, flopping down on his own bed, rattling the gaudy coat of arms above the headboard. "It also has a gas station. There's more beer in the bag."

"Amazing. Now shhh. He's about to bust through the door and kick some alien ass."

"They aren't aliens, Dean. They're Commies."

"What?"

"The Pod People. They're metaphorical representations of Communists."

"Bullshit. They're alien life-forms hell-bent on world domination."

"So were Commies in the fifties. You've seen this movie like a hundred times. Why are we still watching it?"

"Because it's this or Spanish-language infomercials for gluten-free nutritional supplements. And before you ask, there's no porn channel. I already checked."

"You're not gonna let me live that down, are you?"

"Nope. Toss me another beer."

"I hope it hits you in the head," mumbled Sam as he launched the bottle in Dean's direction.

"Ain't gonna happen, Sammy. I've got reflexes like a cat. Much more useful than random trivia about Communist Pod-People. Now shut up and watch the movie." The pffft of the beer bottle put an end to the conversation.

Another drink later, Dean was feeling the warm embrace of the beer and food creeping over him. He rearranged his pillows, the cool steel of his knife comforting him as the television flickered on and Sammy snoring softly on the other side of the room.

"_You're next! You're next! You're next…_"

- - -

"Short stack looks good."

Sam chuckled and looked at Dean pointedly over his menu. The diner was busy – Sunday morning – and the dead elk head on the opposite wall seemed to be staring him down. The vinyl seats were strangely sticky too.

"What?"

"_Short_ stack?"

"Shut up, Gigantor."

"Dude, you set yourself up for that one."

"What'll it be?" The waitress' name-tag claimed "Flo." A blank look plastered her face.

Dean flashed her a smile when he ordered his flapjacks, but it might as well have bounced right off her and died on the sticky floor. Sam placed his order for eggs and bacon and Flo walked off towards the kitchen.

"She's not getting a tip," muttered Dean.

"Oooh, the Winchester charm strikes out. Don't try to be too bitter, Dean. It happens to the best of us."

"Good god, you're in rare form today. Someone's been eating their Wheaties."

Sam leaned back in the booth and tapped his fingers on the table. "Just restless, I guess. We need to find a gig, Dean."

"Well, I hear there's a Ghost Train 'round here…"

"Tourist traps don't count."

"Tourist trap? More like this place's entire economy. Whatever you're lookin' for, Sam, you're not gonna find it here. We'll just keep movin' west."

"I heard there were some copper mines just out of town – bound to be some Tommyknockers or something in there."

"Chill out, Rambo. What's your hurry? I'm in no rush." Dean shifted his left shoulder uncomfortably and hoped that Sam got the point. The guilty look on Sam's face indicated success. "We'll hang out here another day; I gotta change the Impala's oil anyway and I know how much you love our motel—"

"There's just something inherently wrong about a Cavalry Inn located in the middle of Nevada."

"I think it's _quaint_." Dean's studied gaze processed his fidgety brother across the table. Since Oregon, he'd watched him change, subtly. More easily annoyed perhaps, but he'd lost some weight, the hints of dark circles developing under his eyes. That goddamn haunted look, the cautious way he held his weapon.

_Damn it, Dad._

It always came back to that, didn't it? Goddamn Dad and his goddamn secrets. Some days, Dean wondered how he could have done that. How he could have cursed Dean with the responsibility of that knowledge and then just up and left. _Save him or kill him, Dean_. Where the hell did he get that, anyway? How long had he known? Was he right?

And then, some days, he understood. He couldn't explain it, but it had been the right thing to do.

"Dean."

"What?"

"You've been zoned out the last five minutes. Need some more coffee?"

"Yeah. Sure." _Sure, Sammy. Because coffee fixes everything. Hold still for a second while I pour a pot of it all over you; that should stop you from going Darkside, right? Problem solved. While you're at it, toss a little bit of it on this shoulder of mine. Because it still hurts like a bitch._

"Short stack?" Flo interrupted, a polite smile crossing her face.

"Over there," Sammy grinned. Dean kicked him underneath the table and vowed to stick his red t-shirt in Sam's next load of whites.

- - -

Dean watched Sam through the window of the auto parts store. The breeze had picked up and Sam was pulling his jacket closer around his body. Who'd have thought it'd be so freakin' cold in the middle of the desert? The snow-capped range that rose up behind the main strip mocked him. _I told you so._

"That'll be $31.78," the man behind the counter drawled.

"What a ripoff," muttered Dean under his breath as he pulled out his wallet. _Getting low on cash – time to head to the pool table_.

"Pardon?"

"I said 'Know a good place for stroganoff?" Dean tossed down two twenties and waited for the clerk to give him his change. _He's certainly got the blithering idiot look down_.

"Uh… no."

"How about a good game of pool?" Dean asked, stuffing the bills back into his wallet.

"Ol' Rusty Saloon's got a good game," the clerk smiled blankly at him.

"Um, okay. Thanks." With a jingle, Dean slammed the door behind him and tugged on Sammy's jacket. "Well, we won't have to worry about rogue Ely-ians taking over the world."

"Huh?"

"Idiots."

"Ha. Says the man who's wearing something less than a down parka in frickin' twenty degree weather. Can we please stop loitering here and get back to the car? It's time to test out that heater."

"Come on, man – woah, bogey at one o' clock." Two bogies, actually. A pair of Ely's finest headed right towards them.

"Dean, that's borderline jailbait right there—"

"Shut up and smile, Sammy. Excuse me, you from around here?" asked Dean. Cue pleading smile.

"Yes," replied the blonde one, vacant eyes staring back at Dean. Her brunette companion might as well have been looking straight through Sam.

"Oh, great. I was wondering if you could give me directions to the Rusty Saloon. My brother seems to have gotten us lost again." Dean could feel Sammy's laser-like glare boring into his back and fought the urge to laugh.

"Two blocks down on the left," replied Blondie. Dean leaned back against the Impala and flashed her a brilliant smile. "Thanks, ladies. Say, I was thinkin'—" but they were already headed back down the street. Dean turned to Sam, mouth agape. "What the hell?"

"Maybe they prefer the sweet, sensitive type?" ventured Sam.

"No. Something ain't right here."

"What, two girls blow you off and suddenly there's something _wrong_? C'mon, Dean."

"That's not it. Something freaky."

"Look, if you want to stay here for a few more days, just say so. You don't have to start making stuff up."

"Quit the armchair psychiatrist stuff, dude. This is our kind of wrong."

Six hours later, Sam agreed. Dean had been in the bathroom, scrubbing the oil off his hands when a frantic pounding on the door shattered the peaceful drone of the television.

"You call for pizza?" asked Sam, slamming his laptop closed.

"No…"

Through the reflection in the mirror, Dean saw Sam reach under his pillow to retrieve his pistol. Dean palmed his own gun as he leaned casually against the doorframe, waiting for Sam to open the front door. The pounding grew more distraught as Sam placed one hand on the handle and hid the gun behind his back with the other. He cracked the door open. Dean saw his body language immediately relax, sliding the gun into its familiar place in his waistband.

"Woah woah woah, slow down," Dean heard him say, the door swinging open. He scrambled to find a towel to hide his firearm.

"I'm sorry, I just…" the sounds of a woman's breathless plea reached Dean's ears. She stumbled into the motel room, half-clinging to Sam's arm. Probably in her thirties, brown hair piled messily into a bun, her face torn with a haggard expression.

"Sit down," Sam soothed, steering her gently towards his bed. "Are you alright? Are you hurt?"

"No, I… I just haven't had much sleep lately. I—I thought you might be able to help me. Or get help. Or do something…"

Sam gave Dean a wary look. "Ma'am, I'm a little confused; we're just driving through town—"

"You won't make it out. No one does."

"What?" Dean stepped forward and the woman looked up, seeing him for the first time.

"Hold on. Let's start from the beginning. What's your name."

"Virginia. I—I teach at the elementary school."

"Okay, Virginia. You're safe here. Now tell me what's going on."

"It started about a week ago. I didn't think anything of it to begin with. But people started acting… strange."

"Define strange."

"I can't. It's almost… imperceptible. They're my family members, my friends, my students, but… they're not." She dropped her head into her hands. "There's no… emotion. None. Just the pretense of it. The -- the words, the gesture, the tone of voice, everything else is the same, but… but not the feeling."

Dean glared at Sam, the innocuous _I told you so_ on his lips. Sam averted his stare.

"Virginia, I think you need to get some rest. You look like you haven't slept in days."

"NO!" she shouted, tumbling off the bed. She was at the door in an instant, grappling with the dead-bolt. "You're one of them too!" she sobbed as her voice cracked.

"What? One of them? No! Stop—"

But she was gone.

Dean threw up his hands in frustration. "What the hell, man?"

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Sam's bewildered gaze was fixated on the door.

"You don't tell them to sleep – that's when the Body Snatchers get you!"

"Bodywhat?"

"Body Snatchers!"

Sam stared at him like he'd grown a third nipple. "Like the movie you were watching last night?!"

"Yes! C'mon dude, her family looks like her family, but they aren't? She hasn't slept in days because that's how the Pod People get you!"

"Dean, Pod People are ridiculous. They're _aliens_. For all we know – assuming Virginia's not some sort of nutjob - they could be some sort of shape-shifter, the kids could be changelings -- hell, we could have a large scale demon-infestation on our hands…"

"Pod People, Sam. Betcha twenty bucks. The end of the world starts right here in Bumfuck, Nevada."

"Would you stop it with the drama? We figure out what they are and then we kill them."

"Pod people!"

The satisfying clunk of the remote smack in the middle of Dean's back almost made him shut up. Almost.

- - -

They didn't know where to start. All they had was a hysterical schoolteacher and a gut feeling that something was very, very wrong. So when Dean suggested they look for the pods, Sam didn't protest. In a town this small, even a fool's errand might result in something constructive.

So… they ended up at Wal-Mart.

The shining diamond of consumerism in a barren sea of windswept dust and sagebrush was host to the only nursery in town, and Dean was convinced that was where the pods were residing.

"They were in a greenhouse in the movie," he'd pointed out.

"Dean, for the last time, life is not mimicking art. They could be anywhere."

"The pods are like plants! They'd never survive anywhere else in this godforsaken town. You got any better ideas?"

_Nope_. Walking down the aisles was akin to a high noon shootout; the aisles were devoid of any activity, the gigantic warehouse eerily quiet. Their cloaking devices – noise, chaos, anonymity – were absent, leaving Dean feeling somewhat naked as they entered the nursery department. The single sales clerk zeroed in on them with a suspicious glare. _Hello, I'd like one pod person. Please. No, I don't need help out to my car._

"Distraction, please," hissed Dean. "I'll wait for you in the car," he said in a voice loud enough for the clerk to hear, "Come find me when you find whatever flora and fauna shit you're lookin' for."

"Can I help you?" the clerk asked under the guise of customer service. Dean tried not to bust out laughing at the sight of the gigantic bitchface his brother shot him before making up something about burnt tulips and alkali water while Dean slipped down an aisle, headed straight for the back room.

The back room stank of decomposing plants, fertilizer, and probably some bat guano mixed in there too. Dean poked and prodded around the pallets of fifty pound soil, turned over a pot or two, but when five minutes of sleuthing produced nothing, he began to wonder how long the Boy Encyclopedia could hold out.

A glow coming from the door marked "Office" caught his eye. He jiggled the door handle experimentally. Locked. With a quick glance over his shoulder, Dean pulled out his familiar pick and had the old lock open in seconds.

Vindication. Sweet, creepy, disturbing vindication. The pods were there, lining the office walls, in different stages of development. They looked like a giant cross between a seed and a sea turtle, some of them spilling a thick milky substance from their massive cavities. A chill ran down Dean's spine as he caught sight of a porcelain human arm sticking out from the muck. _Disgusting_. He pulled his gun and approached cautiously, poked it.

No response.

Off to the right, a face. All the pieces in the right place, but blank. Featureless. Dean backed away slowly. He had to get back to Sam, plan an attack on the warehouse. Get rid of the pods, stop the disease from spreading. Over by the desk, a tented white sheet caught his eye. Against his better judgment, he peered underneath and nearly gagged.

Virginia. The poor, haggard, innocent school teacher. Her head had been bashed in, the thick red stain of blood covering her face. But she looked strangely at peace. Must have been killed just coming out of the motel.

"No one gets out."

Dean whipped around, pistol leveled at the sales clerk who Sam had been talking to. He was now blocking the exit. "I wouldn't be so sure about that."

"You don't have any choice, _Dean_," the clerk said flatly, "It's guaranteed. You're not getting out of town. Not before you have to close your eyes. And then it'll all be over. You'll be at peace."

"I'll pass, thanks. Not that thrilled with this place to stick around anyway. It's fucking cold."

"Like I said, it's out of your hands. It's a natural progression." Dean was suddenly aware of the injection gun in the clerk's hands._Crap._

The crack of the gunshot reverberated throughout the warehouse. The clerk looked confused for a moment as the blood pooled around the small hole in his forehead before dropping to the ground. Dean lowered his gun. Deep breaths. It would be moments before someone came to investigate the noise; there had to be other people here, at ground zero for the cultivation of the pods. Grabbing the injection gun, Dean scrambled back into the storage area, securing a couple canisters of lawn mower gasoline and a bag of fertilizer. Seconds later, he was running like hell in the other direction.

The explosion was larger and quicker than he'd expected and the force of the blast tossed him like a rag doll into a stack of sand bags. He never really got used to sensation of getting the wind knocked out of him -- lungs suddenly became a void and the brain slowed to a crawl Lying on his back, Dean searched for his breath as the plants around him began to burn. _Crap_.

With a grunt, he righted himself and sprinted for the sales floor, ignoring his screaming muscles. Something was definitely bruised. But he had to find Sammy.

"Sam!" Dean hissed, canvassing the aisles of geraniums and stone toads. It couldn't be that hard to lose a six-foot-five _dorkus maxiumus_.

He was slumped against the checkout counter, hands bound behind his back as his head lolled sleepily onto his chest.

"Sammy!" Sam's eyes flickered in Dean's direction and his lips moved, but no sound escaped. "Crap. Sammy, you gotta stay with me, man. You can't fall asleep. You fall asleep and they win."

"Dmmfph," Sam garbled, head sinking lower into his chest.

"Snap out of it," Dean commanded, slapping Sam's cheek lightly with one hand as his knife slid through the plastic restraint. With a grunt, he lifted Sam's arm over his shoulder and hefted him up, nearly tottering over the checkout stand in the process. Little brother wasn't so little anymore. There was no way in hell he was getting them both all the way out to the car.

Yahtzee. Medicine aisle, twenty feet away.

"C'mon, champ," muttered Dean as he half-dragged Sam's semi-conscious body towards salvation amidst the crackling geraniums and flaming petunias. He found what he was looking for: the little white pills that Sam had brought home during finals week of his junior year of high school.

"You're gonna hate me for this." Dean crushed up three of the pills and slipped the white powder under Sam's tongue as a volley of gunshots crashed over their heads. _Shit. Reinforcements_.

Sam coughed, smacked his lips experimentally at the chalky mint taste. His eyes snapped open and his face went white. "Whatthefuck, Dean? …Oh god, I think I'm gonna puke."

"Sorry, Sammy. Wait until we get out of here." Dean was crawling down the aisle, weapon drawn. He spotted two not-so-cheery blue vests in the candy section, one of them had a fucking _rifle_ pointed in his direction. Two shots – one hit the chick in the knee and the other sailed past the dude's hip. A bottle of vitamins exploded to Dean's left. To his right, the fire was starting to encroach upon the rest of the store, licking up an aisle of Barbies and headed towards the My Little Pony display.

Dean crawled back to Sam. His hands were shaking, pupils dilated. "Dean! What did you give me?! What the hell is going on over there? What did you—"

"Slow down. Breathe. I gave you some caffeine pills… the bastard sales clerk shot you up with a tranquilizer. The Pod People were gonna get you. Now, we have to get out of here, but two of his buddies have us pinned down. I need you to find me some hydrogen peroxide and nail polish remover. Hustle and don't get yourself shot." Dean snuck around to the next aisle to draw fire away from his brother, ignoring the look of shocked disbelief that was plastered on his face.

"Why are you fighting this, Dean?" called the female clerk from her prone position amongst the Hershey's Kisses. "We're offering you peace. Isn't that what you wanted?" Dean aimed at a clown-shaped piñata and squeezed off a succession of shots. Candy flew everywhere, spraying the clerks and Dean popped the dude in the shoulder. With an indifferent glance at the bullet wound, the clerk shifted his rifle to the other shoulder and put a shot through the massaging gel insert display Dean had been hiding behind only seconds before.

Sam came scrambling over, doing his best to fold his huge frame into a slightly smaller target. He dropped a handful of bottles at Dean's feet. "This good?"

"Perfect. Drain a little bit of peroxide out of one of those bottles and add the acetone."

"Dean, I don't think this is a high enough concentrate--"

"Shut up and do it. It's the only chance we've got right now." Dean guiltily watched his brother's hands quiver at the task. He was gonna feel like crap in about a half hour.

Three bottles were ready and Dean adjusted his position. "One, two, three."

One. Two. Three. Sam lobbed the bottles over to where the clerks were staked out. One, two. _Crap. A burning sensation in the thigh_. One, two. One, two, three. Dean poured the rest of his clip into the bottles as they rolled towards the two pod people.

"Exit, Sammy!" The explosion wasn't as big as the fertilizer had been, but the shrieks from the enemy told Dean it had done its job. Sam sprinted towards the door like he'd been shot from a cannon. Dean was in close pursuit, but his right leg was choosing to be unresponsive. The warm trickle of blood down the inside of his jean was not a good sign. Sam took out the elderly greeter blocking the exit with a quick sucker-punch and suddenly they were outside, in the bitter cold, wondering where they'd parked the car. No time to waste though, because it sounded like another set of reinforcements was on the way.

Reaching the Impala, Dean tossed the keys to Sam. "Drive." Sam caught sight of Dean's bloody leg. "Goddamn it, Dean."

"Shut up and drive. There's a battering ram of carts headed our way."


	2. Chapter 2

**Snatched, Part 2**

* * *

They could see the black billows of smoke from their motel room. Dean lay on his bed; the white towel wrapped around his thigh was spattered with red. Sam mainlined a bottle of water by the window.

"I don't think I should take it out, man. I can't hold a pen right now, much less take a bullet out of your leg."

"Give yourself a few minutes… there's some cold pizza on the counter from last night."

"Dean, I'm not pulling it out. The bone isn't broken, it didn't hit an artery and it doesn't look like it fragmented. I don't think it was from the rifle… it would have been a lot messier if it was. We'll clean it up, but that bullet's staying in there. I'm gonna rip you up if I try to fish it out. You want some ice to slow down the bleeding?"

"That would be lovely," Dean gritted. One thing. He asked Sammy to do _one thing._ Sam came back with the ice and laid the packs around Dean's leg. "You know, we could just hightail it out of town."

"They probably have the exits blocked. No one gets out, remember?"

"It'd be worth a shot."

"And what would we did when we got out, huh? Go to Salt Lake City and inform the governor that an alien invasion was happening in Eli, Nevada? We'd be thrown in a little white room faster than you could say 'Pod People'. We're screwed, Sam."

"It's not the first time and it certainly won't be the last." The microwave beeped and Sam pulled out the bowl of water he was trying to sterilize. "You feel good enough to do this in the bathroom? You can stay there, but it's gonna make a mess."

"Oh, so I get a choice in the matter now? How about you take that goddamn chunk of lead out of my fucking leg, Sam? That would be _ideal_."

"Take your jeans off and get into the bathroom. Unless you want me to cut 'em off. I've got another fifteen minutes or so before I crash and it's not going to be pretty."

Dean sat in stony silence for a moment and then halfheartedly wriggled out of his jeans, gasping in sharp pain as the heavy fabric danced across the wound. Sam came back from setting up in the bathroom and dragged Dean's arm across his shoulder to help him off the bed when Dean let out a muffled whimper.

"Woah. What was that?"

"Put me down, man. Put me down," Dean wheezed, slumping back against his pillows. "I… oh crap… I had a little run-in with a pile of sand bags in the back room. It's nothin'—I just need a sec."

Without waiting for approval, Sam tilted Dean forward and pulled up the back of his shirt. Dean flailed and squirmed, but not before Sam could look at his back. He'd seen bruised plums that looked better. From neck to ass, it was red, with angry purple and blue splotches developing. "Dude, you know you're human, right? Drop ya, and you'll bruise."

"Yeah, I been trying to find a way around that – not workin' so well."

Sam gingerly helped Dean off the bed and into the bathroom, setting him carefully on top of the toilet, a sea of towels in the surrounding area. Dean focused on his breathing as Sam methodically washed his hands and filled up the irrigation syringe with the sterile water. "You want something to hold on to?"

"Just do it." Sam crouched down and delicately removed the bits of fabric in the wound -- doing his best to control his shaking hands -- before gently releasing the contents of the syringe back and forth into the injury.

Dean wanted to scream_. High level of pain-toleration my ass. Focus on something else. A nice, big, juicy cheeseburger would be awesome when all of this is said and done. A little on the rare side_—Dean made the mistake of looking down at the wound as Sam started on the second syringe – _Nevermind. Not really in the mood for ground beef right now._

"You doin' okay, Dean? Hangin' in there?" Sam's voice was on edge, quivering in his throat.

"Just dandy." The agony seemed to last for hours, not minutes. Dean's heart dropped to his stomach when he saw Sam go for the familiar brown bottle. "Aw, hell no."

"I'm not mixing it with acetone, Dean. No explosives necessary right now."

"You understand I can't pass out from this, right? Because then I go Pod Person."

"Well, what am I going to do when your wonderful little caffeine cocktail wears off? Huh?" Dean didn't even get a warning as Sam poured the clear liquid on the bullet entry and it sizzled. A strangled cry died in Dean's throat as the edges of his vision went black.

"_Fuuuuck,_ Sammy," he hissed.

"Sorry, man. Worst of it's over. Promise." And then the liar kept pouring it.

"SonofaBITCH." Dean pinched his eyes shut as Sam wrapped a fresh layer of gauze around his leg. Tried to stop his shoulders from quivering as Sam hoisted him back to his bed. Failed miserably. Grudgingly accepted the three brown pills his brother offered. Sank back in the pillows and stared at the ceiling as he desperately fought the downward pull on his eyelids.

"No way in hell you're leaving me here alone," Sam hissed, poking Dean in the ribs as he settled down next to him.

"I wasn't gonna sleep," mumbled Dean, painfully aware that his words were beginning to slur together.

"Bullshit." Sam passed his bottle of water over and Dean took a cautious sip.

"So. Pod People."

"Yeah. Hate to say I told you so."

"What are we gonna do, Dean? Blowing up a couple of pods and the local Wal-Mart helped, but they've gotta have multiple locations."

"We couldn't save 'er, Sammy."

"What?"

"The schoolteacher. Found the body with the pods." Dean watched Sam's jaw go rigid and the muscles in his throat contract. He swallowed hard. "No one gets out."

"Stop saying that. We're gonna figure out a way around this." Sam's voice had gone low as he peered at Dean through hooded eyes.

Dean wrestled what little energy he had left to jab Sam playfully in the ribs. "Not leaving me alone, are ya Sammy?"

"Nah. But Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Do not _ever_ crush caffeine pills under my tongue again. I nearly lost it."

"Dude, you nearly lose it after five tequila shooters. Remember that bar in Phoenix?"

"The one after the jackalope hunt?"

"Heh. Amazing you remember that after all. Remember anything except prayin' to the porcelain god half the night?"

"I remember you givin' me hell for three months after that about blowing up 'innocent lil' bunnies.' Killer bunnies with really sharp teeth if I recall correctly."

"You killed Thumper, dude."

"Shut up. I know about Bambi a week later in Vegas."

"… Wait, what?"

"Bambi?" Sam smirked as he watched the color rise to Dean's cheeks. "Heh. She wasn't exactly what you were expecting, was she? Get a lil' extra surprise?"

"Dude, the bar was dark. I thought she was just athletic."

"So when did you figure it out? When—"

"Hush. We're not talking about this."

"Oh, but Dean, I'm sure—"

"End of conversation. How do we stop the Pod Person invasion? Just kill as many sons of bitches as we can and hope neither of us falls asleep before we get through with them?"

"We could call Bobby."

"Yeah… but is he gonna get here before one of us crashes? Probably not." Dean idly toyed with his silver ring. "What would Dad do?"

"It doesn't matter. What are you, delirious from blood loss or something? You talk about him like he's still here." Silence. "He'd probably tell us to man up and go take down those bastards."

"Yeah. Typical."

"Dean…"

"What?" Sam's head was slowly migrating towards his chest. Dean poked him.

"Ow. Sorry. Um, did Dad… did he ever tell you where?"

"Where what?"

"Where he heard… what he told you."

_Aw, fuck. We're back to that_. "No."

"I was just thinkin'…"

"What?"

"Nevermind."

"Dude, you do _not_ get to pull that."

"Oh, don't give me that. You're the one who went how many months without telling me?" Sam's lip was beginning to curl up the way it tended to when he was getting ready for a particularly venomous exchange.

"What you don't know can't hurt you."

"Bullshit. Dean, how do we even know that Darkside stuff is legit? Where did Dad get it from?"

"Look, the man used his last minutes to tell me that. He wouldn't have bothered if he didn't think it was legit."

Sam's voice was getting louder now. "Why didn't he tell you where he got it? Then we would have at least had a tiny chance to tracing it back and maybe stopping it—"

"He told me how to stop it. He said I had to keep you safe."

"That's real specific."

"I don't even know why we're talking about this right now," sighed Dean, sinking deeper into his pillow. _We got a Pod People invasion goin' on, and he's worried about this Darkside shit?_ He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, eliciting a poke in the ribs from his brother.

"God, you can be such a pain in the ass sometimes," Sam hissed.

"Look who's talking."

Sam slid off the bed and stretched his shoulders. The walls were back up -- he seemed to have picked up a few things from his brother since they'd been back on the road together. "I am beyond tired… I think the pills wore off."

"Want some coffee?"

"Not funny. I'm gonna go grab a coke out of the vending machine."

"Fine. But don't fall asleep out there."

"Right back atcha." The door clicked shut and Dean closed his eyes. No, he wasn't going to fall asleep. But the light from the bedside table was blinding and the room had slowly begun to spin. Blood loss -- what a bitch. His leg was still throbbing, but at least it stopped bleeding.

Drifting somewhere between consciousness and sweet, liberating delirium, Dean heard the door open again and the squeak of the bedsprings as from Sam's weight. "I wasn't gonna fall asleep," Dean muttered.

"Shhh. You can sleep now. Everything's safe." The cold hand on his shoulder caused Dean's eyes to snap open. Sam was staring back at him, wide-eyed and concerned.

"What?"

"You just told me to sleep."

"Dean, I think the blood loss is going to your head. Here, lemme get you something to drink."

"Thanks." Dean shook his head and blinked. Musta been hearing things.

Sam returned with a glass of water. "So, what next?"

"We try to find the other pod-stations. There's no way that was the only one." The water tasted a little sweet. Dean put it down. "Where's your coke?"

"The machine was out."

Dean pursed his lips and stared down at his glass. _Get a grip, Winchester_. "Sammy… can you run out to the car and grab my phone? I think I left it in the back seat."

"Sure." Sam palmed the keys to the Impala and shot Dean a look before heading out the door. "Don't pass out on me, now."

"You have my word." As soon as the door closed, Dean slid off the bed and hobbled over to his jacket, breath hitching as his leg told him, quite loudly, _no thanks, I'd like to stay on the bed for the next couple hours._ He grasped the gun from his pocket and limped back onto his bed, careful to rearrange himself exactly as he had been with gun stored strategically under the pillow next to him. Prayed he was just being paranoid. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes for emphasis just before the door rattled ajar. Dean cracked an eye open at his brother – or was it? – as he tossed Dean's phone on his bed.

"Took you long enough; you stop for lunch on the way back?" Not even a flicker of annoyance. _No. Not again._

_I can't. I'd rather die._

_No, you'll live._

_You'd be doing me a favor._

_You couldn't save your dad and, deep down, you know you can't save your brother._

_I fucked up, Sammy. I'm so sorry._

"No. You figure out what we're doing?" Sam was studying his face intently.

_Let's find out_.

"I – _sonofabitch_," winced Dean, collapsing over in mock agony.

"What's wrong?"

"Fuckin' muscle cramp… leg. C'mere."

Sam was next to him in an instant. Dean leaned back and moaned as his brother – no, not his brother – bent down to attend to his leg, leaving the back of his neck exposed. Dean winced as he brought the butt of his gun down on the vulnerable ridge where the skull met the spine. Sam – not Sam – dropped to the ground with a cringeworthy thud.

He moved as quickly as his aching body would allow him, disarming the thing that looked like his brother before he could regain his senses. Gun tucked in the waistband. Blade strapped to his ankle. Just like Sammy. Gave the body on the floor a friendly little nudge with his foot as it began to twitch. Gun leveled. "Where the fuck is Sammy, you alien son of a bitch?"

Sammy's hazel eyes blinked harmlessly as he tried to regain focus. "Right here, Dean. What's wrong with you?"

"Heh. Ironic."

"Dean, it's me! Sam! Your _brother_." His face twisted into a contortion of hurt and betrayal. Dean met his eyes… not Sam's eyes. Dead eyes. Empty.

There was no emotion. None. Just the pretense of it. The words, the gesture, the tone of voice, everything else was the same, but not the feeling.

"Liar. Hands up against the wall."

"You're not gonna shoot me, Dean." Dean saw Sam – not Sam – stand up, drawing himself to his full height. Dean saw Lucky Charms in the motel room, bullet-ridden empty cans on a split-rail fence, sticky soda on the Impala's back seat, stacks of books on unmade beds, the retreating shadow of a hooded sweatshirt attached to a duffle bag bound for California, the bottomless in the back seat, the empty bed, the apartment in Palo Alto, the burning bed, the dirty laundry in the trunk, the box of fake ids in the glove box, the wood floor of the cabin outside Jefferson City, the burning pyre, the anemic clinic walls in River Grove and the towers of paper in Bobby's living room. But Dean didn't see his brother.

"I wouldn't count on it." The crack of the gunshot echoed in the tiny room. "Where's my brother, motherfucker?"

Sam… not Sam. The body snatcher. The body snatcher looked up at Dean, then down at its bloody kneecap. Then back up at Dean. The pretense of a smile crossed its face. "He's gone. Just like the rest of them. And you're next, Dean."

"Like hell I am." The second bullet hit its mark and with a violent tremor, the body slumped to the floor. Dean turned his head away as the sticky black pool began to spread out over the floor, away from his brother's – _not his brother's_ – head. Felt the vomit welling up in his throat and leaned over the other side of the bed. He let it go.

- - -

Dean sat in the front seat of the Impala as his fingers tightened around the steering wheel. The world was sliding away. His eyelids were heavy. The ache in his chest was more than just a couple bruises.

_Lucky Charms and cans and soda and books…_

And yet the anger burned deep. Gonna hunt down every single one of those sons of bitches and make 'em pay. Suffer. Beg for mercy.

_Maybe Sammy's still alive. Not everyone… no. Damn it. Keep him safe. Safe from what? From this? When, where, why… damn it, Dad. Maybe they could bring him back, I could make a trade – no. Virginia had been quite dead. No coming back from there. Can't do this alone. It's too much. I can't – no. Sammy would have wanted it this way. So vengeance it is._

A sudden knock on his window nearly made Dean jump out of his skin. A small boy stood outside, his face pressed up against the glass. Against his better judgment, Dean rolled the window down halfway.

"You're next, Dean." The dead eyes stared back at him.

He punched the accelerator, leaving the child standing in a fog of burned rubber and exhaust. He didn't know where he was going anymore, only that he had to be anywhere else but here. Bumfuck, Nevada. End of the world. End of _his_ world.

Houses and fenceposts whipped by as Dean sped down the main drag, heading for the flats of Utah. If he could just get out of here… maybe Salt Lake City. Call Bobby. Hell, even Ellen would do in a pinch. Round up as much firepower as humanly possible and obliterate the town – it was lost already. No one left to save. No one worth saving.

The Impala complained loudly as her tires met the gravel on the side of the road. Dean yanked the wheel to the left as his vision swam. _So fuckin' tired._ He glanced down at his leg and noticed the wet patch of red spreading across his jeans. _Not gonna make it to Salt Lake._

Slammed on the brakes. Cranked the wheel hard to the left. He'd spotted a clinic in the downtown area – if you could even call it downtown. More like a tiny climax of rural civilization. If he could get into the clinic, he could stock up on supplies that would get him to the middle of Utah.

The sign outside the clinic proclaimed "Dr. Arthur, M.D. Eli Medical Clinic." But it looked more like a run-down booze store, paint peeling, stained lace curtains flapping lazily in the windows. Dean stumbled out of the Impala, clutching his firearm close to his stomach. The street was dead, a ghost town. Dean chuckled morbidly at the irony as he tried the door. Locked. A well-placed kick to the glass granted him entrance.

The place was small, but it would do. Dean could barely walk a straight line anymore as reality kept flashing in front of his eyes, a deathly dance of dark and light. His leg burned, his limbs felt light lead weights and the image of the empty circle in the middle of his brother's head tormented him. It wouldn't go away.

Had he heard something while Sam, his Sam, was outside? Surely he could have done something. Anything. Where was his brother's body? Probably rotting next to the empty pod of his doppelganger. All the shit they'd gone through in the last couple years, all the agony and hand-wringing over evil fates. All that ended here. Like this.

It was wrong. All wrong.

Dean pulled open a drawer full of gauze and started patching up his leg; the blood wasn't congealing anymore. A flicker of worry rattled his empty stomach. What if it'd nicked an artery? He might not make it to Salt Lake. He padded the wound and wrapped an elastic bandage around the leg as tightly as he could, hoping to slow down the blood flow. The glass cabinet containing a plethora of little clear vials was smashed to bits as Dean looked for the one marked "Epinephrine." Victory.

He managed to locate a syringe and needle. It was getting harder to co-ordinate his movements now as he tore of his jacket and searched for a vein. Grimaced as he stuck it in the wrong place. Went in again and – yes. Sweet absolution.

His limbs felt lighter than air as he snagged a few more vials and needles for his car trip and floated across the floor to the door. But… no. A figure blocking his escape route.

"No one leaves, Dean."

Squeezed off two shots. The figure crumpled and Dean stepped over it. He didn't even remember opening the door to the Impala, or starting the engine, but next thing he knew he was speeding down the road again. His heart pounded loudly in his ears, breath quickened. The world lay out before him, crystal clear. And yet, he felt strangely detached from it. Like a condemned man watching his death from an ivory tower.

Dean met no resistance on the road; he sighted not a single person as he sped towards the open, sprawling flats of Utah. A shaft of sun broke through the clouds and illuminated the valley ahead. The Promised Land. He thought he was home free.

Until he hit the roadblock. Half of Bumfuck's population appeared to be stretched across the road in front of him. Armed to the teeth, too. Dean slowed to a stop and idled the engine. His eyes drifted to the empty seat next to him. _Lucky Charms and cans and books and Sammy's grin _–a void of hurt and remorse and_keep on keepin' on_._Ain't gonna leave you alone_…

Dean turned up the radio and exited the vehicle, gun heavy in his right hand. The steady, biting breeze that had been hounding him ever since he got into town had died down and the sun shone warmly on his back. His body was a feather; weightless and hollow. Couldn't feel his leg anymore and even that dull pain in his shoulder – the one that'd been bothering him since Duluth – was gone. He felt his lips curl into a snarl, jaw tense.

"End of the line, it seems," Dean growled. He could see the road beyond the roadblock, stretched out for miles, painfully straight. It called to him. _Dean…_

"Dean Winchester." A man in a crisply pressed suit stepped forward. "We've been waiting for you."

"I'm here."

"Dean. You know we can't let you leave."

"That's what I keep hearing."

"Sam went quietly. You'd be wise to follow his example."

"Don't talk about him like that."

"What, like he's gone? He is, Dean. There's no changing that fact."

"Shut your goddamn mouth."

"Oh, Dean. I'd expected more of you. And yet, here you are. Letting emotion get in the way of your better judgment."

"I'm human. That's kinda what we do."

"Humanity's overrated. Come on, Dean. You've seen it happen – no 'aliens' necessary. Humanity can just drain away, slowly but surely. People harden their hearts and grow callous. Surely you know what I'm talking about."

"Haven't a clue."

"Humanity is just a word. In the end, you're all just animals. Plenty of men are as cruel and inhuman as you imagine my kind to be. The capacity for evil is consistent. You've got nothing to fear. Come on, Dean. Get some rest. Let it go."

"Not today." Dean leveled his gun at the suit and squeezed off another two shots. The suit gasped, observed the gaping holes in its chest and looked back up at Dean, blankly.

"Bad move, Dean."

Dean slid back behind the steering wheel and gripped the well-worn leather reassuringly. Let his gaze linger for a moment on the empty seat beside him. _Lucky charms and cans… _he turned his eyes back to the roadblock.

"Yipee-ki-yay, motherfuckers."

The Impala leapt forward as Dean touched the accelerator. A spiderweb of cracks danced across the windshield as she took out the first few lines of defenses, the satisfying thud of bodies against the steel was masked by the crack of gunfire. Then, suddenly, there was no more resistance. His foot nudged the accelerator onwards, the sweet whisper of freedom breathing through the shattered glass. He could almost see the straight, windblown road before him, ready to embrace him in its warm --

The sickening sound of steel was all too familiar. The tires squealed and burned on the asphalt as the Impala spun. He'd caught the front edge of a parked truck, or something. Things were happening too fast to react as the Impala slammed into something unfortunately solid. Dean felt the frame collapse in on him as the vehicle came to a dead stop.

_Come on. We still have one bullet, we still have the Colt, we can start over—_

Hazily, he tried to regain control of his surroundings. Tried to pry his eyes open despite the searing headache. A warm stream of blood trickled down his face – god, there was blood _everywhere_. His blood? He almost gagged when he thought about it. He tried to move his legs, but his stomach dropped when he realized he couldn't feel them. Pinned down in a metal coffin. Could barely breathe – ribs were probably broken, shoulder hurt like hell_. Blood, blood and more blood, rivers of red._

The warm, smothering caress of sleep dragged him down into the depths as he clawed desperately at the surface. Helpless.

In the end, he didn't really have a choice.

_Squeeze out a ragged breath, lean back against the seat familiar leather seat. Crowd's gathering gawking at the carnage. Bastards ain't gonna get me know. Close your eyes. Think of darkness and peace and Sam and Mom and Dad. Ain't gonna leave you alone. Fought the good fight and now the fight's over._

_Get some rest, Dean_.

_Yes, sir._

- - -

"Dean."

He cracked an eye open. It couldn't be heaven – smelled too bad. And if this were heaven, then that would mean that Sammy was God.

Yeah, definitely Hell.

"Dude, Dean -- what the fuck? Put the knife down."

Hmm. Knife was under his pillow, just as it should have been. The recesses of sleep began to retreat from his mind. Sammy – Sammy? – was sitting on his bed, hair rumpled and eyes heavy with sleep. He squinted at Dean and shook his head before rolling over and pulling the covers up around his neck.

"Don't try'n pretend that anchovies don't give you nightmares. Quit thrashin' around. M'tryin' to sleep."

_Lucky Charms and cans and books…_

"Son of a bitch, Sammy. That was –" Dean looked at the TV, harmlessly staring back at him, blank. Bastard was mocking him. "Nevermind." He slid his knife back under his pillows and sunk deeper into the lumpy mattress. A dream. A fucked up, anchovie-induced dream, but still… not really. Sammy was still sitting next to him, breathing, smiling, maybe thinking of Jess. Things were as they should be. Not Darkside, not Snatched, just regular ol' Sam and Dean and their kickass car.

"Hey, Sammy?"

"What? Can it wait 'til morning?

"No. I hated Lucky Charms."

"Good for you. Now shut up and let me get some rest."

* * *

Notes:  
[1 I'm not a doctor. Nor do I aspire to be one. Blood makes me queasy. So the bullet-in-the-leg scenario was brought to you by a little Google-fu. But really, you'd think there'd be more stuff online about how to remove a bullet from your body...  
[2 Been to Eli. There's no Wal-Mart there. Nonetheless, no offense to any native Eli-ans, but I wasn't thrilled.  
[3 The ending wasn't a cop-out per se... it was intended to mimic the ending of the movie (which, I suppose, in itself was a cop-out). But it's not supposed to be "Psyche! Not a Death!Fic." I pilfered some of the notable quotables from the movie too and integrated them into the dialog, etc. There's allusions and I'm not claiming them as my own. Oh wait. This is fanfic...  
[4 Dean has a potty-mouth because I have a potty-mouth. Sorry.

Comments, criticism would be lovely. I've been working on a longer fic, but after eighty or so pages, it's sorta stagnated. This was half my attempt to work my way out of my block, so I'd love to know what you think.


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